#wilfred owen

[numinousnic]

30 DAYS OF POETRY Day XIX – “Greater Love”

I read a lot of World War I poetry in my English classes last year, and while Wilfred Owen was probably tied with Isaac Rosenberg for favorite WWI poet, “Greater Love” is one of the most heartbreaking poems I know.

Red lips are not so red      As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems shame to their love pure. O Love, your eyes lose lure      When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!

Your slender attitude      Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care: Till the fierce love they bear      Cramps them in death’s extreme decrepitude.

Your voice sings not so soft,—      Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,— Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, As theirs whom none now hear,      Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.

Heart, you were never hot      Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; And though your hand be pale, Paler are all which trail Your cross through flame and hail:      Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.

[madnessofmen]

me and the mutuals

[sweet-suzume]

Happy 132nd Birthday, Wilfred Owen!

[bajablastflavoredsaxreed]

[gnossienne]

Ben Whishaw reads The Next War by Wilfred Owen

[apoemaday]

Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? — Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, — The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.        

[sigmastolen]

War Requiem, Op. 66 | Benjamin Britten, text by Wilfred Owen Ian Bostridge, tenor; Simon Keenlyside, baritone; Sabina Cvilak, soprano; London Symphony Chorus, Choir of Eltham College, London Symphony Orchestra, Gianandrea Noseda

V. Agnus Dei 21. One ever hangs where shelled roads part / Agnus Dei

One ever hangs where shelled roads part.      In this war He too lost a limb, But His disciples hide apart;      And now the Soldiers bear with Him.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: dona eis requiem. O Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, grant them rest.

Near Golgotha strolls many a priest,      And in their faces there is pride That they were flesh-marked by the Beast      By whom the gentle Christ's denied.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: dona eis requiem. O Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, grant them rest.

The scribes on all the people shove      And bawl allegiance to the state,

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: ... O Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, ...

But they who love the greater love      Lay down their life; they do not hate. 

… dona eis requiem sempiternam. … grant unto them eternal rest.

Dona nobis pacem. Grant us Thy peace. 

[mads-schubert]

hello TMA fandom please have this sketch of The Piper

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

British gay/bi male writers and their social circles

As a great admirer of gay literature, the social circles of gay and bisexual male writers is something that piques my interest. Due to the dangerousness of the matter in the past and also because it revolves around a relatively small niche, it seems that there was high level familiarity between these figures. The United Kingdom, a country whose literary input has abundant homoerotic tones, is a very adequate setting to analyze such a configuration.

I've been building a graph on this subject for some time, and now it seems mature enough for me to post it. It's a diagram based on friendship connections — deep or superficial —, although romantic and family-related connections are also included. Just a mutual recognition of existence isn't enough to justify a connection (otherwise most of them would be linked to Wilde!), and rivalries were not considered too. All the writers included were born during the Victorian and Edwardian eras (1837-1910), where this interconnectivity seemed particularly strong.

This is just an early version, as I imagine there is still a considerable amount of information that I missed. Therefore, I'm very open to suggestions and comments on it!

(Three Irishmen were also included in the diagram: Stoker, Wilde and Reid)

[kald-dal-art]

Part 2 of TMA Episode posters, been procrastinating a bit on this series, but hey got the perfect excuse to work on it again so why not.

Hope you like these ones as well :^)

[enviroshow3d]

Armistace day. 11am. A minutes silence. Then, at 11:01, in John Davis Music, Adelaide, Warwick Cooper read the poems of Wilfred Owen

[endof-vanity]

Reading Rosetti's Life of Keats becomes an occassion for Owen to admit that he has 'more than once turned hot and cold and trembly over the first haemorrhage scene'. Still speaking of Keats he continues:

'But I never guessed till now the frightful travail of his soul towards Death; never came so neat laying hold of the ghastly horror of his mind at this time. Rossetti guided my groping hand right into the wound, and I touched, for one moment the incandescent Heart of Keats'

Religious ecstacy has become literary ecstacy, and like the former, the latter seems to be predicated upon sado-masochistic sexuality. Pleasure is gained from probind wounds, which in turn give access to the beloved's 'heart'.

From Taking it Like a Man: Suffering, sexuality, and the War Poets Brooke, Sassoon, Owen, and Graves, Adrian Caesar.

[rpfshippingpolls]

⚠️ DON’T START DISCOURSE ABOUT RPF IN THE NOTES!! YOU WILL BE BLOCKED IF YOU DO SO ⚠️

Do you ship it?

Reason:

“They went on dates. Wilfred was probably the most emotionally invested at first, but the affection was definitely reciprocated. Owen’s mother was suspicious something was up very soon in. Sassoon introduced Owen to his gay poet friends and later introduced him to Robert Ross who was Oscar Wilde’s BFF and main supporter at Wilde’s trial for being gay. Generally, they were very intimate and affectionate - spend whole days together, write a ton of letters to and about each other, and generally had a very high consideration of each other. Owen literally wrote to Sassoon a letter saying “I love you” and “you fixed my life”. Their relationship is also taken pretty seriously in lit studies. In one of his last letter to Sassoon, Owen wrote “ [We] knew we loved each other as no men love for long”. Your honor, they were gay.”

Submitted by @tenitchyfingers

[oscarwetnwilde]

James Wilby as Siegfried Sassoon and Stuart Bunce as Wilfred Owen in Regeneration. (1997)

[goodbyedarlingirl]

This is glorious. I’m speechless.

Wilfred Owen, “A Terre”, read by Ben Whishaw

[apoemaday]

Dulce et Decorum Est

by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime -- Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud   Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori.